


The Strongest One There Is

by corvuss



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (But mostly hurt), Brainwashing, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Banner-centric, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Mutant Bruce Banner, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Torture, The Author Regrets Nothing (The Author Regrets Everything), Torture, War, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvuss/pseuds/corvuss
Summary: If there's one thing Bruce promised himself, it was to never get caught.He broke that promise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: I'm drawing inspiration primarily from both the MCU and Earth-616 in this fic. Don't worry about continuity or canon or anything. Set roughly pre-A1 and pre-Planet Hulk.
> 
> I have evil plans for all these characters, and will add more tags as the story develops. Don't read if you don't like fucked up sad shit. ;D

They’re on his tail again.

Figures. After almost six months of peace, Bruce is long overdue.

He’s weaving through the narrow alleys of Kolkata, leaping over overturned trash bins and jumping between parked vehicles. He slides behind a dumpster, heart pounding as he glances over his shoulder. 

No movement. He can hear footsteps slow, far off in the distance; he’s lost them for a few seconds. Bruce clutches his chest and gasps for breath. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ He curses himself for letting himself get out of habit. _You can panic once you’re out of town. Just a little longer._

His vision flashes green for a second at the loud clang beside him, and he finds himself climbing onto the dumpster and up onto the roof before he gets the chance to calm down.

 _Run, run, run._ Old instincts have taken over completely; He leaps building after building, zig-zagging away from the SWAT team hot on his heels, the familiar noise of a chopper faintly behind him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s running, just that there’s a remarkable lack of bullets on his heels this time. _They’re learning,_ something in him says, a queasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach.

“He’s headed eastward! Go!” Someone calls out over a receiver, and the chopper behind him grows louder.

 _Run, run, run._ Bruce takes a sharp left turn, rolling onto a balcony and climbing up onto the next building, jumping from the railing as leverage to push him into a faster sprint.

 _Just a few more minutes. Please,_ he begs the Hulk. His heart’s pounding out of his chest. He can feel him right on the verge; it’s getting hard to maintain control now. He’s seven stories up. Just one wrong step and-

He cries out as the ground gives out from under him. Somehow he just barely catches himself on the cornice, pulling himself back up in one fluid movement and bracing to run -

Two successive _thuds_ slam into his back, and pins and needles shoot through his body in a split second. He collapses onto his face before he can fully register what’s going on.

_One wrong step._

Bruce struggles to get back up up, fruitlessly. Three more darts, and the paralysis hits like a freight train as he collapses again. Something deep inside him burns, but fizzles out before it gets the chance to ignite. And then he’s too weighed down to move at _all._

 _No_ . _This can’t be happening._

Dark figures encircle him and he lets out a weak groan of protest. The chopper’s blades are near-deafening now. There’s a faint voice into a radio receiver that he can’t fully make out - “Got him, stand down-”

_No. Please, no._

He’s momentarily blinded by the spotlight above him before he’s hoisted up roughly. He’s deadweight, a rag doll. A hand twists into his hair and Bruce grimaces as it wrenches his head up. Something heavy is clipped around his neck.

_One wrong step._

_This is what happens when you get too complacent, Banner._

Something’s slipped roughly over his head, and he’s overpowered by a sharp, sickly-sweet smell. His head swims, vision fades, and he can’t tell if he’s just lightheaded or already being hoisted into the air.

_No._

The world goes black.

 

\- - - - -

 

Bruce spends the next few hours fading in and out of consciousness, eyelids too heavy to open, vaguely aware of the floor rumbling beneath him. Time doesn’t exist here. The world feels a mile away; his head too full of cotton to understand what the voices above him are saying. He catches his name a few times. And the phrases “ _property of the U.S. Federal Government”_ and “ _f_ _ugitive_ ”, which, if he's honest, are both basically his name at this point.

It’s too warm in here.

He’s dimly aware of his face digging into the metal grates of the cockpit floor, and he can feel his arms handcuffed tightly behind his back. He’s bound by something heavy; he wouldn’t be able to move even _without_ the tranqs flowing through his system.

 _Damn you, Bruce,_ he curses himself. Even his thoughts are sluggish through this haze. _Damn you for letting this happen._

 

\- - - - -

 

A sudden gust of cold air sends him scrambling back.

The helicopter door swings open to blinding light, and his attempt at lifting his hand to shield his face is futile. He’s still bound, still dazed, still _trapped_.

Multiple pairs of arms hoist him up; He’s dragged out, stumbling, before he can react. The air outside is frigid, biting cold, and the wind whips snow around his hair. He shivers involuntarily. The leaden feeling has worn off enough that he can lift his head with some effort.

  
Bruce blinks, then blinks again. He’s surrounded by such a white, barren wasteland that there’s barely anything for his eyes to adjust to. He can just make out a dark, looming outcrop hundreds of feet away through the snowstorm.

He tries to struggle. One of the guards scowls at him, and the restraints around his body tighten.

In the back of his mind, the Hulk growls.

And then there’s that same sharp-sweet smell from before. It’s a lot like chloroform, he realizes, vision tunnelling as he collapses onto the snow. But chloroform's never worked on him.

_Why isn’t he transforming?_

 

\- - - - -

 

Bruce rolls over as he comes to, letting out a groan. He feels just like he would after a Hulk-out; his body aches all over; the world is too sharp, too harsh, too _much._ That haze is but a fragment of what it once was, but damn, he almost wishes it were back.

His memories, however, are still foggy; the vestiges of a bad dream slipping through his grasp.

But the rough clothing on his body tells him he didn’t have an incident. It’s dead silent, save for the hum of fluorescent lighting above him.

Bruce tries to sit up, only to find his hands are tightly bound. Wrinkling his nose, he uses the corner as leverage to push himself upright. The room is tiny and bare, all blank white walls and cement floor, save for a reinforced metal door. It’s deadbolted.

_Oh, God._

He stares at his warped reflection, feeling his heart sink when he sees the collar around his neck, bulky and silver and almost painful when he turns, like something’s digging deep into him. His breath catches in his throat as he catches sight of the military logo emblazoned on his shirt.

Then the realization hits him like a freight train.

Fuck, it _happened_ -

 _All those years on the run -_ A sick feeling spreads from deep within his chest, the panic builds, and he moves to claw at the fabric around his neck. But his hands are fixed in place. Instead, he curls in on himself, and tries to control his breathing.

_It was all for nothing._

_You failed._

His heart’s pounding. He’s in a holding cell, not a room. It’s too vivid to be a nightmare.

_Please let this be a nightmare._

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.” A gravelly, familiar voice snaps him back to reality, and Bruce spins around. “Welcome to the lab.”

General Thaddeus-Fucking-Ross is standing there, arms crossed, and Bruce wants to wipe that smug expression off his face, wants to run, wants to curl up in a ball and scream.

Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales slowly, softly, as he bottles up the fear.

“Long time no see.” He says, keeping his voice flat as he matches the man’s steely gaze. “I, uh, like the amenities.” He glances around the room, attempting, futilely, to gesture to his surroundings. “I’ll rate you five stars on Yelp.”

“If I were you I’d cut the shit, Banner.” Ross raises a small, black device in his hand. Bruce hears his collar beep twice.

He freezes. Something tingles.

A warning; nothing else happens. But Bruce gets the picture.

“It’s over; you’re _property_ here. You need to _cooperate,_ and that’s an order. Stand up and follow me.”

“Well, hospitality’s not great,” Bruce mutters as he stands up. “Think I’ll have to drop it to a three-point-five.” He’s making an effort not to wince, because _fuck_ , he aches. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if it’s too early to make a break for it as he glances over Ross’s shoulder.

Two pairs of strong arms lock behind him the moment he steps through the doorway, and he staggers for a second, baring his teeth as he’s shoved forward into a long hallway. The walls are just as bare, save for endless office doors and some sporadic informational posters. Something about the lack of windows and the faint musty smell tells him they’re buried somewhere deep underground. He walks forward without much choice.

It doesn’t take long for the sterile electric hum to give way to a cacophony of voices, muffled behind the steel door. It slides open as Ross waves his hand over a biometric lock.

Row after row of glass windows line the walls like reinforced dog kennels. The sick feeling in Bruce’s stomach intensifies as he realizes that the cages have _people_ in them.

A whole host of multicolored humanoids of various shapes and sizes are talking amongst themselves, dressed in the same drab green scrubs as he is. Each one wears a thick black collar, not unlike the silver one he knows is steadily pumping drugs into his system right now.

 _Mutant inhibitor collars,_ the back of his mind tells him. So the conspiracy theories were right. The MRD wasn’t imprisoning _or_ rehabilitating them. They were _here,_ buried in a laboratory from his worst nightmares.

God, he wished he had enough faith in the American government to be shocked.

The noise dies down as soon as he’s lead forward, and suddenly Bruce can feel dozens of sunken eyes boring into him.

“ _Mein Gott,_ Logan,” A voice says from the cell to his right. “They’ve got Banner!”

_Logan?_

Bruce spins around and locks eyes with the Wolverine, whose expression turns almost _grave_ as his brow furrows in recognition. He looks leaner than he remembers - and unsettlingly listless. The strange blue man beside him is pressed up against the glass, long tail twitching in apprehension.

He and Logan weren’t friends. Glorified rivals, at best. But seeing a familiar face makes this all the more real. Logan didn’t deserve to be locked up here. Bruce wants to throw up.

A sharp knee to his lower back shoves him forward before he has the chance to respond. The room has devolved into hushed whispers by the time he’s whisked around the corner; he hears his name a few times.

Well. At least he’s famous _somewhere_.

“I thought you’d like to be introduced to your new roommate,” Ross says, after a few minutes of silent, agonizing walking through much of the same, and Bruce can practically _hear_ his smirk. “He’s been a great help over the past couple of months. You should ask him how we discovered how to keep your monster suppressed.”

He feels queasy, dreading what Ross is insinuating. They finally stop at the end of the hallway, where some of the cages have yet to be filled. The door slams shut behind him, and the shackles unlock, dropping to his feet with a clatter.

At first, Bruce doesn’t see more than the two cots against the wall and the tiny prison toilet in the center.

Until the man looks up, huddled in a corner, a blanket pulled up over his head. He’s paler and thinner than Bruce remembers, and his skin is mottled with dark blue scales, his left arm twisted into something huge and monstrous.

 _No._ Bruce's insides twist up in horror. He doesn’t _want_ to believe it.

The man's face is so worn and haggard he almost didn't recognize him. The tune he’s quietly humming is almost _familiar_.

But his eyes-

Are unmistakable.

 _"Rick?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's that. I'm still figuring out an update schedule that will function with work and school, but hopefully I can get another chapter out by the end of the of the month. Looking for a beta reader so if anyone's interested, hit me up!
> 
> Reviews and kudos are appreciated, as always!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo hoo! Over six months later and Chapter 2 is Finally Up! 
> 
> Thanks for your patience. The pain starts now.

Rick Jones is here.

 

Rick Jones is here and he’s _been_ here for God-knows-how-long facing all kinds of horrors under Thaddeus Ross’s command and Bruce had no idea.

 

Bruce had  _no idea._

 

Because he was too busy running and hiding like the snivelling coward he is to even _think_ about checking up on his best friend, the closest thing he’s ever had to a little brother, the kid he’s supposed to _protect._  He wants to sink into the ground and disappear.

 

_Fitting. Banner always running._

 

_Shut up._

 

When the flash of recognition graces Rick’s features, Bruce expects a “ _Where were you?!”_ , or a “ _Why didn’t you answer my calls?!”_ , or a “ _You should’ve noticed I was gone!”_. He braces himself for a slap to the face the moment he stands up.

 

“ _Bruce!”_

 

Instead, he finds himself wrapped in a warm embrace - and suddenly realizes it’s not the same signature 'threaten to barrel you into the nearest wall and squeeze the life from your body’ Rick Jones hug. It's gentle. Weak.

 

Somehow, that hurts a thousand times worse than any anger he was expecting, but Bruce doesn’t pull away. He holds him close, feeling like the kid could shatter in his arms at any moment. It’s Rick who pulls back after a few moments, smiling sadly, and God, it looks like he’s aged a decade.

 

“H-how long-?” Bruce chokes out. He forgot just how much he _missed_ him.

 

“I- I dunno, Doc, it’s not like they keep me updated on the time in this place. It was- It was a couple months after you left, I think?”

 

“Almost ten months, then,” Bruce murmurs, the horror creeping all the way down to his toes. “ _Shit._ ”

 

Ten months. He thinks he’s going to be sick. He left him alone here for almost a _year_ and was too self-absorbed to even-

 

“Doc- _Bruce_.” Rick says. There's a sudden hand on his shoulder, an attempt to ground him. “Stop it. You’re doing that thing.”

 

“What _thing_?”

 

“Where your face goes all guilty-like and I can tell you’re beating yourself up over this and now you’re making _me_ feel guilty and Doc, just- Doc! Stop it!”

 

Bruce didn’t realize he was clawing at his hands until Rick grabs them.

 

“ _Please,_ ” he begins. “I don’t _care_ how they got you, or that you didn't know I was here, and-” He coughs a few times, wincing, “- And- and I don’t want your fucking apologies because you have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

Bruce's fists clench, and he makes a noise of protest, met with a glare and a bony hand over his mouth. “You’re- you’re _here_ now, so don’t dwell on the damn past, all you’ll do is make yourself more miserable and that’s the _last_ thing we need in this shithole.”

 

Oh, he can’t help but feel like Rick’s made this speech before.

 

“Okay. Damn. Okay,” he breathes, taking a step back. _He's right, you know. You need to keep a clear head._

 

Bruce screws his face up, and then untenses, as just a bit of calm washes over him.

 

Rick breaks the silence. “How the hell’d they get you? I mean…”

 

Bruce barks a laugh. “I fell.”

 

“You _fell_ ? _”_

 

“Got too comfortable.” He spits it like it’s an insult. _Screw_ calm, actually. “They’d been tracking me, I guess, because they knew exactly where I was. Didn't mask my signature enough, or…” His lips press into a tight frown as he runs his hand through his hair. It's not something he wants to think about right now. “Rick… why are _you_ here? What’s going on?”

 

_It's the connection to me._

_Why else? It's your fault he's here, Bruce._

 

“Uh, well. Ain't that a loaded question.” Rick sits down on the cot with a creak, patting the empty space next to him. Bruce opts to sit on the floor instead, sliding down the wall and drawing his knees to his chest.

 

“Go ahead and say it. I need the information. You can't possibly make me feel more guilty than I already feel right now.” He glances around the room. “Any hidden cameras?”

 

“Eh,” Rick says, after a pause- a wince. “Just video for now. Too grainy to read lips, even. Small freedoms.”

 

“You'd think they would, with the kind of people they keep here.”

 

“I dunno, Doc. Collars seem to do the trick.”

 

Bruce isn't certain they don't have Rick under some “don't tell” policy. But he'll go along with it for the kid's sake.

 

Rick is quiet for a minute, fiddling with his shirt sleeve and nursing at his lower lip- before inhaling sharply. “Look, uh, there’s something I never told you.”

 

“They took me in for. Obvious reasons. But they _kept-_ ” Rick cuts himself off, swallowing. He stares at the ground, and then motions to the blue, scale-like growths dotting his neck. “They kept me because I'm a good test subject. Like- Like the others. I'm… I'm a mutant. I've known since- Since the gamma bomb, really. That's what they do here. They take us, and they try to make us stronger.” His voice is so small. “It’s about as fun as you think. Figured I'd let ya’ know before Ross did.”

 

Bruce feels his heart sink and his blood boil all at once. Well, he was right. It _wasn't_ just a prison. He doesn’t know what to say. Just wants to burn this whole place to the ground.

 

 _Save it for later. He needs you right now._ “Rick, I'm so sorry.”

 

“That's cool with you, right, Doc?” He grins. “That I never said anything about it?”

 

 _Worried smile. Scared underneath,_ Hulk quips, and for once, Bruce listens.

 

“We all have secrets.” He pauses. No, he shouldn't. Scratch that, yes, he _should_. If he was brought to this facility, if he has the collar, they already know. They were one step ahead of him. He got sloppy. Might as well spill it.

 

“...Me too, Rick.”

 

“You- _what_?”

 

“After the incident, it was one of the first things I tested for.” _I didn't want to. It meant Dad was right about just one more thing. But I was desperate._ “I masked the gene the moment I found it, never told a soul. Too much risk of people like _this_ finding out,” he sighs. Too late for that now. “I understand hiding. I really do.”

 

He seems to think about that for a moment. “Did you have powers before? The bomb, I mean.”

 

“I have - _theories_ \- about that.” He drums his fingers on the wiry mattress. It's not something he wants to think about, exactly.

 

“I can manipulate electronics. Sense 'em, too, but the collar makes it all harder. The passive stuff just hurts, and I can't even _use_ my active abilities. It's like being in a straightjacket.”

 

So Bruce could probably still heal, then. It'll just hurt more than usual. Noted. He'd experimented with mutant inhibition devices in the past, but this place has a budget and a level of precision that pure genius and some junkyard improvisation just can't replicate.

 

_If you're lucky, you'll transform under enough stress._

 

_Doubt it._

 

Rick leans back against the wall. “I fried a row of library computers in the first month we met, you know.”

 

“ _That's_ what that was?”

 

“Geez, for a supergenius, you really are dense, huh? Anyways,” he examines his fingernails, their keratin thickened by a few layers, shaped into more of a point, and inhales, “They've been experimenting with some kind of super soldier program. Gene splicing, gamma, all sorts of crap. Y'know what happens when you expose mutants to a shitton of radiation?”

 

Of course, his mind supplies. He knows this like the back of his hand. It's like steroids on steroids, enhancing what's already there, but also causing new mutations to form, reaching further into your subconscious and sometimes destabilizing everything entirely - a genetic shot in the dark, with extreme consequences. There's a set of genes that make you more susceptible to --

 

“Well, they turn blue and scaly and would probably look like a total badass if they weren't chronically malnourished.”

 

Bruce laughs at that, and Rick grins from ear to ear. And then he looks down. Contemplating.

 

“It’s just, it’s _different_ , y’know, when you’re living it. You never know how people’ll react.”

 

Bruce knows the feeling.

 

“Hey, thanks for telling me now. I know it takes some guts.”

 

“Hah. Figured I’d let you know before Ross did.”

 

Oh, speak of the devil.

 

“Always knew there was something wrong with you, Banner.”

 

The man strides in before the door even fully slides back into place, crossing his arms over his chest. He's about to speak again, but Bruce finds himself standing up the moment it registers, taking a step forward to square him up, placing himself between Ross and the kid. Something in him is _furious_.

 

Ross raises a hand, and he ignores it.

 

“Doc, whatever you're thinking, _don't_.”

 

“You dare. You _dare_.”

 

Ross doesn't react, because of course he doesn't. He's a statue with a cold, steely gaze.

 

“I thought you had some humanity left in you. But you trap Rick, you trap _my friend_ here, so you could _what_ ? Use him as a guinea pig? For _information_?”

 

“Doc!”

 

“God, at least _I'm_ government property. But this? This is low, even for _y--_ ”

 

He should've seen it coming. The sharp burn of electricity bursts from his neck, coursing through his veins as his vision turns white. It's all he is for a moment, just fire and ice and _pain_ to the core, before it subsides to a duller simmer, enough to hold him in place, not enough to stop him from realizing he's on the ground now, Ross crouching over him with the same emotionless expression.

 

“Your _friend_ is a fugitive by association. He _chose_ this life, and that makes him worse than you.”

 

Bruce doesn't retort. He _can't_ retort.

 

“I _own_ you, Banner. You don't have rights here, and the quicker you learn to quit running that little mouth of yours and cooperate, the easier the rest of your life will be.”

 

He doesn't break eye contact, nostrils flaring.

 

“We have your blood, and they'll find your data. You can choose to work with us or not, but by the end of this, no secret will be left uncovered. Don't get any stupid ideas.”

 

_Fat chance._

 

Ross squeezes his shoulder and stands up. “Make good choices, son. Hope you're ready bright and early tomorrow morning.” He steps into the doorframe. “Bring him out for dinner, Rick. Doubt he’ll be walking there on his own.”

 

There’s a silence for a few minutes as his footsteps echo down the hall. Bruce still can’t move. His whole body feels like jelly, like he’s been put through a blender and then left to soak into the pavement. Rick sighs, slumping off the cot and wiping the foam from his mouth with a shirt sleeve.

 

“You shouldn’t stand up for me in here, man.”

 

Bruce grunts. Rick snakes an arm under his back and props him up against the wall, not without some effort.

 

_Stupid. You’re so stupid. You’re lucky Rick didn’t get hurt._

 

He tries to punch the ground, but he’s too weak. His hand just kind of flops. _Haaah._

 

“Yeah, first time around is the roughest one. You’ll be almost back to normal in an hour or so.”

 

“Hhhhh.”

 

“Yep. Here, think you can stand up? I gotta show you how they serve dinner ‘round these parts. I think tonight’s some kind of fun nutrient soup.”

 

He makes a noise of protest, but Rick hoists him up anyways. It’s awkward, and he stumbles, almost completely unable to support his own weight. It’s pathetic. “Dude, you’re light, even for my noodle arms.”

 

It takes them upwards of ten minutes and a handful of near-falls, but somehow, they make it into the common area. He blinks; it’s more busy than he expected, colorful, despite the drab uniforms. Everyone’s mulling about; it’s not exactly _bustling_ , but it’s something.

 

And there’s _some kind of_ smell coming from the kitchen. Whatever it is, it’s hot, or at least warm.

 

“Aaah, Rick! Let me help, let me help!” It’s the blue mutant from earlier, and suddenly there’s another pair of arms hoisting him onto the metal bench. Bruce falls forward onto the table, letting out a weak, _“Oof_.” He raises a weak hand in greeting, and the other reaches out a three-fingered hand to shake it vigorously.

  
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Bruce. Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Kurt.” He gives a little bow and a toothy grin.

 

Bruce manages a smile, slurring a “Hey,”. Oh, he has a splitting headache.

 

“He got the shock treatment like thirty seconds in,” Rick says. _Am I delirious, or is that_ pride _in his voice?_

 

“As feisty as you’ve told me, then.” Kurt swings himself up onto the tabletop, perching. Bruce can’t tell if his tail is swishing back and forth for balance or out of emotion. It’s _surreal_ to see someone so excited to meet him, but he supposes it makes sense if all the information he got was from Rick. It’s a biased source. He doubts any of these people have seen enough of the outside world to know the truth about him.

 

“Alright, Blue, you keep the old man company, I’m gonna go get us some chow.”

Kurt chats, but Bruce tunes him out. He might feel guiltier about that if he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up.

 

By the time Rick comes back with the food, Bruce can kind of use his hands again. He picks at it, forcing it down to keep his energy up. The soup is watery, full of chunks of what looks like potato. There’s a piece of bread to go with it too; soggy, obviously frozen, but not too stale. It’s edible, but nothing to write home about. He’s had worse.

 

It’s all too much to take in.

 

_Pathetic._

 

Bruce holds his shaking hands in front of his face and _breathes. Calm. Stay calm. Don’t let the sedatives kick in._ Despite what Ross said, any data he’d gathered before had been destroyed; he made sure of that long ago. It took months, _years_ , to compile what he did on his condition. They have a leg up with their resources, but he has to have a few weeks, at least.

 

...But what the _hell_ did Ross have planned for him tomorrow morning?

 

 _You have time, keep a clear head. You’ll deal with it when it comes. You’ve escaped situations not totally unlike this one before. You’re_ Bruce Banner _, damnit, you’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Just breathe._

 

Oh, _God,_  he’s _so_ not okay. It’s not helping.

 

There’s a touch - and he _flinches_ \- no, just a hand on his shoulder. Rick smiles apologetically, and Bruce closes his eyes, trying to let it ground him.

 

“I know this sucks, Doc. We have each other now, alright?”

 

 _He’s comforting you. Why is he comforting_ you? _It’s your fault he’s here in the first place, Bruce._

 

He inhales, trying to pull himself together. “We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TSOTI Chapter 2: Intrusive Thoughts Boogaloo!


End file.
